I know I’ve been teasing you all for years about a possible movie based on the book, and the truth is that we’ve come really close, but for one reason or another it just hasn’t panned out. Heartbreakers. Many of them.
Enter Barbara Stepansky, the amazing, talented, brilliant, and award-winning screenwriter who is nearly finished with a first draft of a screenplay for STARCROSSED! (Btw, I have a teeny tiny writer crush on her, if you hadn’t noticed.)
Today, she asked me if there were any scenes fans of the first book absolutely couldn’t live without. I told her I didn’t know, but I’d ask. So I’m asking!
What scenes from the book MUST be in the movie, in your opinion?
And before anyone gets too excited (including me) please keep in mind that we’re only in the screenplay stage (again) and a screenplay ain’t a movie. (Yet.)
Thanks for your help!
I grew up in the 90’s.
It was a dreary time. Everyone
was scared of getting HIV so no one was fooling around. We wore all black, or plaid shirts over baggy
jeans. Everyone’s hair was in his or her
faces. But probably the most defining
feature of the 90’s was the music. We
listened to what is now known of as Alternative Rock.
I’ve been thinking a lot about music lyrics and what they do once they’re on a loop in your head, attached as they are to a melody that you can’t ever seem to rinse out. I grew up singing songs like “Creep” by Radiohead, “Black” by Pearl Jam, and “Smells Like Teen Spirit” by Nirvana. Oh, and the Cure! Which was technically an 80’s holdover into the 90’s, but definitely still a huge player in the music world pre y2k. I must have listened to the album “Disintegration” about a million times, and to this day I can’t hear Robert Smith’s plaintive voice singing “Pictures of You” without smiling.
Yes. I’ve got a screw loose. The Cure—the most manic-depressive band to ever hit the top ten—makes me smile.
Most 90’s lyrics ran in the direction of silent desperation, hopelessness, and self-loathing. By just singing along with my favorite songs, I must have told myself I was a loser a zillion times and that any endeavor was pointless because I was built to fail—or Built to Spill as one band poetically named themselves.
I believed it, too. It took me years to finally dare to write a book, though I always wanted to. I never thought I could even finish a book, let alone write one that would be worthy of being published because, without even trying first, I was already a failure.
I don’t blame the music I listened to for my self-defeating inner monologue, but lately I’ve been wondering how much what I listened to reinforced my own pre-existing condition. In the 90’s the only way to be cool was to understand that you were insignificant, and doubly so if you were a woman. The best you could hope for was to be some slacker’s manic pixie dream girl.
Music has changed a lot since then, both in sound and in message. Women have changed. Lilith Fest isn’t the only way to hear strong, confident women singing and performing and generally killing it. The notion of what is cool has changed.
I have a three-and-a-half-year-old daughter now. Currently, her favorite song is “Roar” by Katy Perry and we’ve been listening to it on repeat for weeks. She’s learned a lot of the lyrics. As I was taking her to preschool the other morning, I looked back in the rear-view mirror and watched my fearless, kind, and clever little girl as she howled, “I am a champion, and you’re going to hear me roar.”
I burst into tears. I’ve definitely got a screw loose. The Cure makes me smile, and Katy Perry makes me cry.
I woke up at 4 am this morning, thinking, It's Loose!
So, here it goes... you can get your copy here .
I was away for the holidays so I didn't get a chance to wish you all a happy one. I hope everyone had a wonderful time with their loved ones. I know I did. My family and I went back East to see my folks, and my daughter got her wish of a white Christmas! It was story book perfect, which I'm not used to when it comes to holidays. I'm much more used to someone having an emotional crisis, a car getting stuck in a snowbank, or something lighting something on fire, so storybook perfect was as new for me as it was to my daughter.
It was also new for my husband, but I think he would have passed on the experience if it weren't for our little girl. He had the dubious honor of scraping ice off the windshield of our rental a couple of times in 20 degree weather. His tropical Puerto Rican blood thought the apocalypse was nigh.
Speaking of snow (and the apocalypse for that matter) my latest book SNOW LANE comes out next Tuesday, January 2nd!!!
I am so excited for you all to read it, (but then again, I'm not at the same time). SNOW LANE isn't exactly my life, but it's based on it. I've said before that it's not what happened, but it's the truth. There's something distinctly disturbing about the truth. My brother (who read the book and loved/hated/laughed/cried his way through it) told me that no one would believe it anyway. So that's some comfort.
So, here it goes. The countdown to the release of SNOW LANE is officially on!
Please be so kind as to email me your mailing addresses to firstname.lastname@example.org and I will send out your copies ASAP.
To everyone else who entered, thank you so much for your participation, and for sharing your quirks with me. I so enjoyed reading about them. I laughed out loud several times and choked on my coffee once. It even came out of my nose. Thank you for that. :)
Tick-tock, tick-tock. 36 hours left to see who wins one of these lovely ARCS.
To enter just fill out the entry form in the post below.
Snow Lane comes out in less than two months, so it's about time to start giving away some of my ARCs to you lovely people. The story is set in 1985 in a small town in Massachusetts, and it is both funny and poignant at times. It's a departure from the kinds of books most of you know me by, but when you read it you'll definitely see why I had to write this. I think you'll enjoy it.
Anyway, the blurb is as follows:
Fifth-grader Annie is just like every other girl in her small suburban town. Except she’s starting to realize that she isn’t.
Annie is the youngest of nine children. Instead of being considered the baby of the family, she wants to carve out place for herself in the world. But it’s hard to find your destiny when the only thing you’re good at is being cheerful. Annie is learning that it’s difficult to be Annie, period, and not just because her clothes are worn-out hand-me-downs, and she suffers from a crippling case of dyslexia, but also because there are secrets in her life no one in her family is willing to face.
I will be selecting 5 lucky winners at random. To enter please fill out the Rafflecopter entry form below.a Rafflecopter giveaway
The deadline to enter is November 27th.
And as usual, the giveaway is open to everyone! :)
So, I wrote a book on accident.
Here’s how that happened...
I’m the youngest of eight kids and, no, it wasn’t a Brady Bunch deal where two reasonably sized families were joined by marriage. Rather, all eight of us were born to the same mom and dad, one right after the other, and we all grew up together under the same roof, usually stacked on top of each other in bunk beds.
It was like being born onto a football team. There was a lot of shouting and running around. We were a tide of humanity that swept across public places like thundering linebackers. We caused a lot of damage, incurred many injuries, and accumulated a lot of stories, which we still retell to make each other laugh.
Then, after fifty some odd years of withstanding my family, the house we grew up in burned down. Totally on accident, which was the weird part, considering I had nearly burnt the house down three different times that I can recall.
When my sister Martha called to tell me—first and most importantly—that everyone was fine, no one was injured in any way, but everything from our childhoods was lost, we both started laughing. She texted me pictures of the smoldering ruins, and to this day they make me giggle.
Unfortunately, this phone call with my sister Martha happened just minutes before a conference call with my editor and my agent. I had to explain to my agent and my editor that I was only partially prepared for the call because the house I grew up in had just burned to the ground. I really tried to say it with a straight face, but I couldn’t. I burst out laughing.
Naturally, they had some questions.
I told them that if they knew my family, they’d know that the house had survived far longer than it had any right to. And burning the house down is just so Angelini. It was bound to happen someday.
That’s when they both told me I needed to write about my family. For years now my husband has been telling me the same thing, and he’s usually right about stuff like this. So I said okay.
I started writing down anecdotes. I went for the old classics, the one’s my family had memorized. I had a blast writing it all down, laughing myself to tears. But when I read it back, it didn’t make any sense. It was a mess. I realized I couldn’t tell the funny bits without telling all of it. And the more I wrote, the more of those funny anecdotes I removed.
Memoirs are not my thing, apparently. But fiction is. I came up with a story, I added some characters and took others away. I never intended to write this book, and yet somehow, without meaning to, I ended up with Snow Lane.
Snow Lane is a work a fiction. It didn’t happen this way. But it’s all true. This is the most honest book I’ve ever written, not because the plot is a faithful recounting of my childhood. But because if you read it you’ll understand why my sisters and I can laugh at tragedy.
The book comes out January, 2nd, and I am so excited for you all to read it!
You can pre-order your copy using the link below.
those of you who can’t wait that long…. I just received some ARCs. :)
It’s been years since I posted. Literally. I was never very good at posting to begin with. Managing a social media profile is more than a skill. It’s a talent. There are some people who have it, and then there’s me.
It’s not that I don’t like writing. I write nearly every day, but I usually prefer writing about the imaginary people I’ve created in my head than about myself. See, I just don’t have that much to write about. I rarely have life-altering realizations. I don’t have the ability to paint crazy cool designs on my fingernails, I’m not fussed enough to dye my hair unicorn colors, and I almost never have good advice. In fact, if I ever give you advice, probably don’t take it. Every good thing that’s ever happened to me has happened pretty much on accident after I made about a million terrible choices—as if the universe saw what a mess I was making of my life and decided to throw me a bone.
But, seeing as how I started this blog and you all took the time to sign up for it, you deserve to know what I’ve been up to. The long and short of it is I had a baby. And nearly three years of my life just flew out the window.
I suspect there are more than a few new moms out there, stealing five minutes for themselves to read this post, who are glancing up at the title and wondering where they went, too. It just happens when you have a baby. You check out of the “You” motel, with it’s crisp sheets and whenever wake up time, and willingly subjugate yourself to something like the army, but way harder. Drill sergeants have nothing on colicky babies when it comes to yelling.
Then they stop being babies and turn into toddlers, and you really can’t take your eyes off them for a second or they’ll be chewing on electrical wires or licking the bottoms of their shoes. You say the craziest things when you have a toddler—things you’d never think you’d have to say to another human being. Like, Please don’t stick your finger in the cat’s butt. He doesn’t like it. Or, No, your diaper is not a nest. Do not put scrambled eggs in there.
Toddlers. The only thing that separates them from the clinically insane is age.
And then, suddenly, they become little girls. They choose their own outfits and use the bathroom by themselves and they start saying please and thank you and I love you, mommy. And your heart breaks into a million pieces.
There’s no checking back into the “You” motel. Momming is a life-long gig, and I hear it gets way harder from here on out. But there’s finally more time and there’s more room for me.
So that’s where I’ve been. And I’m back. Hello again.